


exposé

by erebones



Series: breathing underwater [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series), Critical Role: Wildemount Campaign (Web Series)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, M/M, Oh No He's Hot, Pre-Slash, if that's a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 20:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13643625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: Post-battle, the squad goes swimming in a lake and everyone is Shook by Caleb's hotness when he's not covered in grime. Caleb would notice and possibly give a shit if he weren't so occupied ogling Fjord.





	exposé

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashembie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashembie/gifts).



> Pretty sure there's already a million of these, but sometimes your good good friend asks you to write tropey fanfic for a new fandom and you just have to comply bc you're a good friend who takes care of all fanfiction needs (I love you tasha, sorry I haven't finished that secret garden au yet...)

The displacer beast is dead. Its remains lie scattered across the ground in fetid strands of flesh and slop where Fjord’s massive falchion cleft it in twain, setting off the insidious explosive magicks Jester had woven into its flesh. And for once, they’re not all dead.

Caleb slumps to the ground, puts his back against a tree and shuts his eyes. Just for a minute, he tells himself, until he feels Nott’s pricking claws scraping at the front of his robes and patting his sticky cheeks. “Caleb!” she whinges, “Caleb, wake up! Now is not the time for sleeping!”

“Nngh,” is his astute reply. “Stop it, Nott. I’m fine. It’s over.”

“Are you sure about that?” Jester pipes up from somewhere nearby. Opening his eyes seems like so much effort. “You don’t look so good, Caleb.”

He finally forces his eyes open. They’re all a bit the worse for wear. Beau took a hard blow to her back, and she’s knelt on the ground away from the blast zone, wincing in stubborn silence as Jester dabs ointment onto her skin. Molly sits perched on a jagged outcropping of rock, pretending to be absorbed in wiping his swords clean of ichor while Yasha lurks nearby, nursing a freshly-bandaged left arm and eyeing Molly’s fresh cuts dubiously. Nott is missing a fresh notch out of one ear, though she hardly seems to notice; she’s more absorbed in poking and prodding at Caleb’s outstretched legs, making sure they’re still in working order.

It’s not their first tough fight, nor their last, and they’ve developed a kind of pattern in the aftermaths. Jester flits here and there with her kit and her dwindling magicka reserves, and everyone else takes care of each other in their own way. Caleb, comforted by the rote routine, lets his eyes slip shut again.

Something nudges his boot. Even that gentle touch radiates pain through his entire body, a reminder of the beating it had suffered. Jerked from his semi-aware meditation, Caleb grunts and flexes his bruised knuckles. “ _What_?”

Fjord stands above him, looking bashful. “I’m sorry to trouble you,” he says in that deep, mallow-sweet rumble of his. “But the others are cleaning up in the lake, and it looks like you could use a bit of a wash.”

Caleb blinks slowly and looks around. Some small amount of time has passed since he drifted off, and the party has moved to the lakeshore some distance away, stripping off bloodied armor and refreshing themselves in the water. Nott and Jester are holding hands and splashing in the shallows, while Mollymauk limps deeper, down to his skin, until the water comes up over his shoulders and he is submerged, blowing bubbles to amuse the girls.

“Oh,” he says. His mouth is dry and his tongue feels like an old sock against his palate, making it difficult to speak. He wipes a hand over his mouth and grimaces at the sticky streaks of blood that coat his skin. “That’s… probably for the best.”

Without being asked, Fjord leans down and gives him a hand up. Caleb’s body creaks in protest, and he finds himself listing slightly into Fjord’s bulk. Unconcerned by this new proximity, Fjord allows himself to be used as a makeshift walking stick, guiding them both to the water’s edge.

Caleb dislikes drawing attention to himself, but everyone is battle-weary enough and desensitized enough to pay him no mind as he disrobes. Fjord very kindly detaches himself and begins unbuckling his metal shoulder plate, turned slightly askew to give Caleb the illusion of privacy. He appreciates it, but not as much as he appreciates the verdant musculature of Fjord’s back, dappled with dark freckles that come exposed as he shrugs out of his leather jerkin and padded tunic. _Stop staring._ Caleb struggles with own robes, clumsy with exhaustion, and finally slopes into the water in just his trousers rolled up to the knee.

The water is cold, and it helps wake him up, dragging him out of his meditative stupor. After scrubbing his face and beard with fine sand until his skin tingles, clean and ichor-free, he gives in to his body’s pleading and sits down in the shallows, letting the cold water seep into his aching bones. Beau flicks water at him before moving on, more interested in floating on her back further out as she tries to get Yasha’s hard-won attention. Caleb closes his eyes and drifts again.

Nott’s careful claws on his back, featherlight, draw him back again. He’s soaked the dirt and sweat away and has become vaguely prunish—the walk back to town will be uncomfortable in his sodden trousers, but the numbed pain is worth it.

“I’m all right,” he whispers again, soothing the fear in her wide yellow eyes. “Would you be a love and get my shirt for me?”

Nott nods and scampers off. Caleb drags himself to his feet. It’s more difficult without Fjord at his side, but he manages, scraping wet hair back from his face and slicking it down the back of his neck where it curls and drips down his spine. The air chills him, lifting the hairs on his arms and dragging icy fingers down the center of his chest and belly. Feeling exposed, he hunches forward and slogs through the shallows to where Nott is waiting with his shirt.

Partway there, an eerie tickle curls under his spine, like fingers in a come-hither gesture. He glances up, hands curling on instinct—but it’s only Fjord, still bare-chested, staring straight at him with a bit of a stricken expression on his face. He’s halfway to putting his own clothes back on, trousers sitting low on his waist and half unlaced in the front. Caleb drags his eyes away from the furrow of dark hair leading down from Fjord’s navel and stares down at himself.

“What? Have I missed a spot?”

The question draws the attention of the others, and Jester lets out a low whistle. “Damnnnn, Caleb, where were you hiding that all of this time?”

Caleb can feel himself growing hot with embarrassment. He folds his arms over his chest and hurriedly snatches his shirt from Nott’s grip. Her claws catch on a seam and tear slightly, but when he pulls it over his head, rank with old sweat and weeks of road dirt, it stays where it should. The pall of his usual filth laying against his skin is almost comforting. Nott twitches her nose.

“Much better,” she pronounces nonsensically. She thrust his coat at him next, though it dragged mostly on the ground. He shrugged it over his shoulders and tried to hide his stinging cheeks in the ratty sheepskin collar.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he mumbles when Jester seems ready to continue her remarks. Kind of her, truly, but not precisely… welcome. “Shall we head back into town, then? Have a round of celebratory drinks?”

Fjord looms at his side unexpectedly with a clap on the shoulder that nearly staggers him. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

There’s something strange about Fjord, just for a fleeting instant—an aura of crackling dark energy, tinged with brine. Then it passes and Caleb shakes it off, and Fjord’s hand with it. He swallows regret and smiles. “And then, a nap. A very long nap.”

Fjord nods studiously, brow furrowed as he looks Caleb over. The shock of seeing Caleb emerge from the water, dripping and clean, has faded into something else. Caleb would linger on it, but he feels the weight of a few curious stares still prickling his back, so he shoves the impulse aside and scoops Nott up to ride upon his shoulders. She leans forward and whispers into his ear, breaths tickling his nape—

“Are you sure you’re strong enough, Caleb?”

“I’m fine, trinket, I promise.” He tweaks her foot and gets a stifled giggle in response.

Fjord is good enough not to call his bluff, but he walks close as they begin the trek back to their lodgings. Close enough that their elbows brush sometimes. Caleb makes no effort to pull away. The long walk ahead of them doesn’t seem so insurmountable with his quiet green bulk at Caleb’s side.


End file.
